


Promises Kept

by byFTMforFTM



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Drinking, Drugs, I'm Bad At Tagging, Implied/Referenced Abuse, M/M, Michael "Mickey the Homo Sapien" Lemming, Pointless conversations, Reckless Behavior, Smoking, Smut, Trans Male Character, i think theyre kinda cute, kinda self indulgent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-04
Updated: 2019-05-04
Packaged: 2020-02-10 04:53:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18653293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/byFTMforFTM/pseuds/byFTMforFTM
Summary: 2-D's always been a bit too quick to fall in love, and Mickey a bit too slow.I do not own any of the Gorillaz, they belong to Damon Albarn and Jamie Hewlett. I only claim my five characters, Mickey, Angel, Kurt, Richard, and Timmy.





	Promises Kept

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2-D gets into a fight with Murdoc, for the first in a long time, and runs to the first person that comes to mind. He gets there at two in the morning, and luckily for him, the members of D.O.V.E have sleeping patterns as erratic as those of Gorillaz.
> 
> I do not, nor do I claim to, own any characters of Gorillaz, they belong to Damon Albarn and Jamie Hewlett. The only characters I lay any claim to are Micheal Lemming, Angel Murphy, Kurt Gonnevut, Richard Cox, and Timothy Heigh.

It was two in the morning when 2-D stood at the door to the large London penthouse and knocked on the door. He was sore, everywhere, sorer than he'd been in a long while, and the painkillers weren't doing their job. When the door opened, he almost fell into the home, right on top of the person who'd opened it. It was 2-D's second stroke of luck that evening that he didn't fall onto the notoriously sadistic cultist that served as the co-lead singer and the lead guitarist of D.O.V.E. 

"What the fuck are you doing here, 2-D," Angel said flatly, looking up at him with bloodshot blue eyes. She was wearing some odd sort of robe, white, with suspicious red speckles around the ends of her sleeves. It was clear that she wasn't asking why 2-D was here, but rather, asking him to leave. 2-D answered her anyway.

"I'm... I... where's Mickey?" Okay, those weren't the words that were meant to come out, but they had, and 2-D couldn't put them back in. Angel looked him up and down disdainfully and scoffed, turning and leaving the door open. 

"He's in his room, he got back an hour ago. He's probably in a drug-induced coma by now, though." She took a second look back at 2-D and gave an irritated sigh. "Whatever, you know where his room is. Just don't get any fucking mess on my carpets."

With that, Angel returned in the direction of the indoor pool, following a trail of singed rose petals and little black candles. 2-D didn't want to know what was going on at the end of that trail, especially knowing what Mickey had told him about Angel's religious beliefs and practices. Instead, he mumbled a quiet thanks to her and stepped in, holding his hand over his bleeding nose and pulling his shoes off at the mat, wincing with every move. He carefully began his way up to the top floor, where Mickey slept, doing his best not to bump into the glass rails on the narrow, dimly lit stairs. His side ached as he made it up the stairs, leaning against the wall as he went, his body already exhausted from walking all the way here from Wobble Street. Each step seemed to add a layer of more-achy-ness to his bruises, but he had decided a long time ago that the pain wasn't what mattered. What mattered was who could fix it. That was why he'd walked all the way here, and why he'd climbed the hill and the stairs and even faced Angel.

When he finally did get to Mickey's door, he knocked meekly. Mickey was asleep, Angel had said, would he be mad at 2-D for waking him up? 2-D wrung his battered hands as he waited, listening closely for any sign of movement. None came. 2-D knocked again, desperately. A few seconds of waiting had been all it took to remind 2-D of how badly he felt he needed Mickey at the moment. 

This time, he heard movement behind the door. There was a thump and a loud crash, and some muffled swearing, before 2-D could hear the sound of the many locks on Mickey's door being unlatched. After a moment or two of rather anti-climactic clicking sounds, the door knob turned, and the door was yanked open...just to catch on the chain. Mickey cursed it colorfully, undid the chain, and swung it open at last, revealing the short redhead in a full fury, and wearing nothing but a pair of leprechaun patterned green boxers.

"Mother fucking fucker, what the  _hell_ Ang--"

2-D started back, recoiling and bringing a leg up to his chest, whining at the pain the action caused him as he wrapped an arm around his leg and torso and brought his free hand up to his mouth, curled into a fist. His eyes squeezed shut as he bit on his knuckles, trembling. Mickey froze at the sight before him, his fury dying in the back of his throat as 2-D towered, trembling before him, leaning against the wall at the top of the stairs. 2-D heard Mickey swallow thickly, and when he slowly peeked an eye open, he saw him shifting into a less aggressive stance, his arms falling to his sides as he stood up.

"Dee, sugar, what..." Mickey licked his lips nervously, green eyes wide and mouth ajar. He reached out hesitantly, brushing his fingertips over 2-D wrist, almost curling around it.

2-D flinched, whimpering again as the startled motion had jarred his rib again, and Mickey hastily withdrew his hand, waiting. When no blow fell, 2-D began to slowly open his eyes again. The hall was dark, which meant 2-D couldn't see much through the permanent film in his eyes. What he could make out though, was a fuzzy image of Mickey's much smaller frame, standing hesitantly in the doorway as his fingers hovered a few centimeters away from 2-D's wrist. 

"Dee?"

2-D made a quiet sound, blinking and then squinting at Mickey. Now that he could tell he had 2-D's attention, Mickey slowly reached out again and curled his fingers around the taller man's wrist. With some gentle coaxing, 2-D began to unfurl himself, wincing and whimpering the whole way. When he was at last standing normally, Mickey guided him into his room and onto the lid of his toilet. He flicked the light on, wincing at the abrupt brightness, and in the light, 2-D could see the dark circles under and red rimming on Mickey's eyes, a clear indicator that he was both exhausted and not sober.

"I, uh, let me just-just get some pants on, yeah?"

Mickey left 2-D there while he went to lock his door and put some jeans on, and then he returned to gather his first-aid supplies. When he had them, he came over to 2-D and began gently to remove his shirt and several layers of sweatshirts, functioning as a make-shift winter coat. Once the shirt was off, he tossed it in with his laundry in the hamper by the shower, and began gently to dab at 2-D's upper lip and chin with a warm, wet rag, carefully cleaning the crusted blood off of his face. Slowly, it began to come away, and Mickey gave 2-D a pair of tissues to stick in his nostrils to catch the small amount of thick, partially coagulated blood that still leaked from them. 

2-D was mostly quiet while Mickey poked and prodded at him, cleaning his cuts with the warm rag and checking his black eye and his battered ribs. When Mickey took an alcohol swab to the splits on his lip and cheek, 2-D hissed quietly, but he didn't fight him, which surprised Mickey. He'd sort of expected 2-D to complain about the sting, but he didn't. Mickey put some butterfly bandages on the cut in 2-D's cheek, trying to pinch it shut enough to stop it from pulling open again when 2-D's face moved from expression to expression. Then, Mickey crouched between 2-D's knees, taking his hands and carefully cleaning and swabbing and sticking cheap, brightly-colored band-aids onto the skinned places on his knuckles and fingers. 

When he went to pull away, Mickey spotted the dark stains on the distressed fabric of 2-D's jeans, over his knees, and he knelt back down with a sigh. Carefully, he undid 2-D's belt and pulled it loose, tossing it over into a corner of the bathroom where a few other belts, some ties, and a couple of pairs of suspenders lay. Then, carefully, he undid 2-D's pants and slid them off, wincing when the fabric stuck to 2-D's knees. When the pants were finally off, Mickey stared at some of the worst scraped knees he'd seen in a long time. Even 2-D's shins were bloodied with a few scrapes and bruises. Mickey pursed his lips and got to work, cleaning and bandaging the injuries, and, on a hunch, he took 2-D's arms and raised them up, checking the backs of his arms, especially his elbows. It seemed he'd been right to check, as he found scrapes and bruises there, too. Had 2-D fallen down the stairs? He took care of the new scrapes, and then he looked up, meeting 2-D's eyes. He assumed the blue-haired man was looking at him, anyway, since there wasn't much else for him to be looking at. 

"Would... you like some peppermint tea?"

2-D nodded, and hoped that his eyes would convey how grateful he was.

"Alright," Mickey shifted onto his haunches with a quiet grunt, "I'll go and make you some."

When Mickey stood, 2-D wrapped his arms around waist and buried his face against his stomach, clinging to him almost in desperation. Mickey wasn't sure what to do. He'd seen 2-D be a bit clingy, sure; in fact, that had become a bit of a trend whenever 2-D was sleepy or intoxicated at all in the last month. It wasn't the clinging that startled him, it was the way in which 2-D was holding onto him. He was holding onto him in a panicky, needy way that Mickey had never seen before from him. Whatever had hurt him must have terrified him, Mickey reasoned. 2-D was holding onto him like a sailor holding onto a raft, as though Mickey were the only thing between him and a watery, whaley death. Mickey rand his fingers through 2-D's hair awkwardly, absently checking for any signs of injury there. Luckily, there were none. 

"E-easy, Dee," he mumbled as 2-D's slowly tightening grip began to grow uncomfortable. Since when did he stutter? "I've gotta go 'n' make you that tea.

2-D spoke his first words of the night to Mickey.

"Stay with me," he hiccuped, a sob-like sound, really. "Please."

Mickey stiffened slightly, his eyes widening again as he looked down at 2-D for a long moment. Then, he sighed, and gently patted 2-D's head.

"Come here," he said softly, taking 2-D's hands into his own. "Come to bed."

2-D held onto Mickey's hands tightly, his head tilted downward enough to make Mickey think he was staring at them. "You’re not goin' to leave me, are you?"

"We're just moving to the bed, Dee, it's alright. You're alright now."

Mickey managed to get a hand free as he spoke, reaching out to cup 2-D's uninjured cheek, stroking it with his thumb in an attempt to soothe him. Slowly, he managed to coax 2-D to stand up and follow him over to his definitely-too-small-for-the-both-of-them bed, where he eased 2-D down and pulled off his still-remaining socks. Once he had 2-D settled in, he tucked him into the blankets and tried his best to make him comfortable, even though his feet hung off the edge of the bed. The whole time, 2-D kept a grip on Mickey in one way or another, even when it was painful, awkward, or uncomfortable, whether by curling his fingers around his wrist or by hooking them through Mickey's belt loop. When Mickey finished tucking him in, 2-D pulled him to stand close against the side of the bed, his long arms snaking back around Mickey's waist and his face nuzzling back against his stomach. 

"Dee," Mickey whispered, running his fingers through 2-D's hair again, "I need you to let me go so I can get you some tea and some ice for your eye."

2-D's grip on Mickey's waist only tightened. "Why 'aven't you called me 'sugar' since I got 'ere?" 2-D's voice broke as he asked the question, and Mickey could feel his lip trembling against his skin.

It was odd timing for an odd question, one Mickey didn't fully understand at the moment, but he did his best. 

"I'm, uh, not sure, exactly." Mickey hesitated, then continued. "I mean, I think, probably because I thought that now wasn't exactly the most appropriate time for a flirty pet name, I guess. I dunno."

"Bu' I wan' 'o be your 'sugar' all the time."

"I--what?"

"'S nuthin’, never mind, luv. Jus'... please don' stop callin' me 'sugar'. Please."

Mickey hesitated, unsure of what to think, but he decided he'd go with it for now. 

"Okay, sugar, okay."

2-D relaxed a little, and mumbled, almost sheepishly, "I don' think 's flirtatious with you. If it is, 's in a good sort of way."

"Dee, sugar, I'm going to go make your tea."

"Bu' I don' wan' you to leave."

Mickey sighed, gently gripping 2-D's arms in case he had to pry him off. "If you let me go, I'll sing a song for you when I get back. How does that sound?"

2-D seemed to consider it for a moment, before eventually loosening his grip, allowing Mickey to pry his arms away. Once he was free, Mickey placed a kiss on 2-D's forehead, hoping it would reassure him, and sort-of awkwardly pet his hair a little. It seemed to work though, as 2-D smiled up at him, visibly less tense than he had been when he first arrived. 

"Promise you'll come back?"

Before Mickey could make it to his door, 2-D had caught his wrist again, holding on as he asked the question. Now, he was giving Mickey that unfamiliarly desperate, pleading look again. It was as though 2-D were afraid of Mickey, in a way, when he looked at him like that. Maybe he was afraid of what Mickey might do to him, not physically, but emotionally, and Mickey could understand that fear. 

"Of course," he said, "I haven't got anywhere else to go, even if I wanted to, sugar."

2-D seemed satisfied with that, and he let go, curling up as small as he could manage with his gangling limbs as Mickey unlocked his door and slipped out. 

2-D sat alone, silent in Mickey's room, the only light that filtering from the bathroom, and the dim city lights that managed to reach in through the skylight. He buried his face into the pillow, inhaling Mickey's scent as he prayed that he would come back soon. Right now, 2-D really didn't want to be alone. He wanted someone else around to drown out all the bad thoughts in his head, the self-destructive ones, the ones that sounded too much like people he cared about telling him he wasn't important to them. When he was alone like this, he could feel all the fear, all the loneliness, all the pain, clawing their way back up again, threatening to overcome him. 2-D tried to curl into an even smaller ball, but it hurt too much, and he reluctantly stopped. He tried to think about Mickey, about red hair and green eyes and perfect, American-movie-star smile. He tried to think about "sugar" and the open skylight in all weather, the sound of traffic and Mickey trying his best to be quiet as he hummed bits of music from whatever piece he was working on. He tried to picture Mickey in the mornings after, covered in his marks, sitting shirtless at the foot of the bed, his hair still wet from showering and his small feet swallowed in a pair of baggy jeans, recently, jeans he'd "borrowed" from 2-D. 2-D tried to get the images and sounds of his time spent with this person who made him feel special again down out the thoughts that made him feel so very un-special. 

The door opened again, and Mickey carefully entered, trying not to trip over the too-long jeans as he juggled some toast, a thermos of tea, and a little plastic bag of ice along with the door knob. 2-D almost cried with relief.

"You came back," he whispered.

Mickey must not have heard him, as he didn't respond. Instead, he came over, looking for a spot to set the items on his messy bedside table. 2-D didn't give him the chance, though, his arms wrapping around his waist and pulling him into another tight hug as soon as he was within reach, his face once again pressing against Mickey's stomach. This drew a startled hiccuping sound from Mickey, who frantically attempted to juggle the three objects in his hands to keep them from falling on an over-enthusiastic 2-D.

"Jee-whiz," he chuckled shyly, "it was only fifteen minutes, sugar. Are you alright? I mean, obviously not, but, uh, you know..."

Why was it that he always seemed to know what to write when he worked on lyrics, but he never knew what the hell to say when it actually counted? Mickey grit his teeth a bit, frustrated with his babbling when his friend--was that what they were, friends?--so clearly needed him to keep it together. 

"I thought you wouldn' come back," 2-D mumbled into Mickey's belly. "Thought maybe you'd jus' sit down there all night, or maybe run off somewhere. Bu' you didn', an' 'ere you are, with toast an' everythin’!"

"I told you I'd be back."

2-D let go of Mickey, who carefully balanced the plate of toast on the corner of his bedside before handing 2-D the ice and the thermos. Once his hands were free, Mickey helped 2-D to sit up, propping the pillows  up as comfortably as he could at his back before shuffling off to flick off the bathroom lights and close the door. He heard 2-D sipping happily at the tea, which made Mickey smile. When he came back to the bed, he found 2-D waiting for him with that gappy grin that made Mickey's heart do strange things in his chest. The grin widened when Mickey shucked off his jeans and crawled under the blankets with 2-D, curling up at his side and giving a sigh of relief as he began warming up. They stayed like that for a while, Mickey watching through heavy eyelids as 2-D drank his tea. When 2-D put his tea aside, Mickey finally spoke.

"Did you really think I would just... leave you?"

2-D looked startled, and then he hung his head shamefully. 

"I dunno," he mumbled. "S'pose I jus'... always worry that. 'S me soddin' 'ead, you know. Always sayin' rubbish like tha', an' mostly abou' th' people I love, like they don' love me back, or they don' wan' me, an' things like that."

Mickey filed the "people I love" bit away for later, instead sitting up to take a piece of toast and hold it out to 2-D. 2-D gave him a funny look, and then he gave him a smirk that Mickey recognized all too well. 

"Are you gonna feed me, then?" 2-D did his best to wiggle his eyebrows flirtatiously.

"I cannot believe you're doing this right now, Dee." Mickey shook his head, trying not to laugh, as that would only encourage 2-D. "No, I'm not gonna feed you, you horny bastard. I just wanna make sure you eat it, you'll need to eat if you want to get better."

2-D thought about pushing the joke, but Mickey was giving him the firmest look he could muster up, and he decided against it. Even if he wasn't all  _that_ hungry, he ate the toast, and it was good. At least, as good as toast could be. It  _was_ the first not-blackened toast that he'd had in a while, since he couldn't figure out the new toaster in the kitchen. He had only just figured out the old one when Murdoc spontaneously decided to replace it, and when 2-D had tried to salvage it from the rubbish bin out back and sneak it into the kitchen again, Murdoc had shown him why it wasn't working by jamming a fork into it and starting it up. 2-D had watched in horror as the thing sparked and crackled and popped, Murdoc cackling all the while. That had been the last that 2-D had seen of the poor old toaster.

When he'd eaten the toast, Mickey helped him lay back down, and 2-D instantly wrapped his arms back around Mickey, burying his face in the crook of the smaller man's neck. Before he could really settle in, though, Mickey brought his face to his to inspect 2-D's black eye. It didn't take long before 2-D was trying to kiss Mickey, but to no avail.

"No, your lip's split."

"'S not a problem."

Mickey gave 2-D a flat stare. "Yes it is. You can't be kissing anyone for a few days, you have to let it heal. Besides, it's going to hurt like a bitch even if it doesn't open back up again, trust me on that one. I know."

2-D huffed and pouted. He stopped pouting pretty quickly though when he realized just how much jutting out his lower lip actually did hurt. Maybe Mickey was right.

"The swelling on your eye is better, though," Mickey said as he found the forgotten baggie of ice and tossed it to the floor. 

2-D returned his face to its position, snuggled into the crook of Mickey's neck, and for a while, they stayed like that. Mickey ran his fingers slowly but repeatedly through 2-D's hair, carefully working the knots out of it as 2-D traced patterns across the skin of his back, fingers happily following the raised lines of old scars. Mickey didn't seem to want him touching higher up on his back though, since he kept making funny sounds and squirming away whenever he did, so 2-D kept his wandering fingers lower down. After a while, though, Mickey asked him a question that 2-D had been hoping to avoid tonight.

"What happened to you, Dee?"

2-D paled slightly, his fingers sinking into the sides of Mickey's waist as he asked it. In an attempt to escape, 2-D tried to turn Mickey around so he wasn't facing him, hoping he could distract him with little kisses and playful touches. It didn't work, though, as Mickey's lithe body just twisted to remain facing 2-D's, and his hands found 2-D's cheeks, bringing his face back into view. 

"Dee, sugar," he said softly, staring at 2-D's eyes and hoping that he was looking at him, "I need to know what happened."

2-D shook his head and squeezed his eyes shut, a quiet whine bubbling at the back of his throat. Mickey let him push his face free of his hands and back into the crook of his neck, 2-D's arms and legs tangling around Mickey and rendering him immobile, a bit like an over-sized plushie. 2-D held him as close as he could manage, and Mickey tried not to squirm too much as bony limbs and joints poked uncomfortably at his own scrawny body, and stubble awkwardly tickled at the side of his neck. Now wasn't the time for him to be worrying about comfort. He had a goal, and he was going to see that through first.

"I-it were Mudz," 2-D blurted. "'E-'e-'e found tha' track we'd been workin' on together, th' one with jus' you an' me, an' 'e-'e-'e got mad, 'cause it weren't given to 'im, see? An' 'e were right an' proper pissed, an' 'e 'it me fer 'keepin' secrets' or somethin’, I dunno, I don' exactly remember why 'e said 'e was 'ittin' me, bu' I was so scared, 'cause 'e 'asn' 'it me like tha' in so long, and I tried to fight back an' 'e just 'it me 'arder, so I tried to run away an' I fell down th' stairs out front an' then 'e started comin' after me an' I ran 'ere, 'cause you’re 'ere an' you make things better."

2-D was babbling, his shoulders shaking as he trembled in Mickey's arms. Mickey kept quiet, rubbing circles over 2-D's shoulder-blades and holding him carefully, trying to keep him close without hurting his rib. 

"I don' know why I'm always comin' back to 'im, i's not right wha' 'e does to me, bu' I can't make it on me own, 'e's right abou' tha'. I'm nuthin’ without 'im an' Gorillaz. Jus' a big, stupid faceache, 'o's 'alf blind an' looks all freaky, an' I won' get nowhere."

2-D fell silent, save for his sniffles and quiet hiccuping noises, and Mickey held onto him. He tried not to squirm when tears and who knew what else began to wet his shoulder, because that wasn't important right now. All that mattered was that 2-D felt better, and Mickey was trying his best to make that happen. Did 2-D really believe that, though?  _I mean, how could he?_ 2-D wasn't really smart, that much, at least, Mickey couldn't deny, especially after once watching the man panic and try to force himself to vomit up a watermelon seed he'd accidentally swallowed because he was certain that if he didn't, a watermelon plant might grow in his stomach. Murdoc's cackling laughter had  _not_ helped Mickey to calm the situation, either. Still, 2-D was the lead singer of a famous band, and, despite seeming to lack general common sense, he could certainly write music, and, somehow, even lyrics, too. Besides that, he was beautiful, in his own, haunting sort of way. Wasn't that why Murdoc had taken him in as the frontman in the first place? So who was telling 2-D that he looked "freaky"?

"'Ey, Mick?" 2-D had been still, so his speaking came as a bit of a surprise to Mickey. 

"What is it, sugar?"

2-D sniffled. "Do you think I'm borin'?"

If 2-D had been looking at Mickey, he would have probably been afraid of the glare that was on the smaller man's face.

"You are not boring, 2-D. What idiot told you that? Was it Murdoc again?"

Though 2-D couldn't see Mickey's face, he felt the smaller man's body go taut in his arms, and he heard the quiet growl that rose in Mickey's throat as he opened his mouth to speak again. 

"Don' 'urt 'im," 2-D squeaked, suddenly alarmed.

At the sound of the worry in 2-D's voice, Mickey seemed to deflate, the anger draining out of him as quickly as it had swelled up in the first place. 

"Dee," Mickey sighed, trying to find the right words until 2-D interrupted him.

"Let me make love to you," he blurted, abruptly rolling over until he was holding himself over Mickey, who had been flipped onto his back in the process.

"What?" Mickey blurted back.  _Who says that anymore?_

"I said, I wan' 'o--"

"No, Dee, Jesus, you can't! Your rib--"

"Bu' I feel fine--"

"No, sugar, you're--"

"Did I say somethin’ wrong?"

"No, Dee, you're bleeding again."

"Oh."

2-D sat back between Mickey's legs, raising his battered hand to his face and carefully touching along each cut before bringing it back to check it for blood. Mickey followed him up a few seconds later, batting his hands away gently and inspecting 2-D's cut cheek. It was bleeding again, and Mickey suspected that the scab had been softened by 2-D's tears, and a small piece of it scraped off when he'd been trying to wipe his face on the sheets instead of on Mickey. 2-D winced as Mickey pulled a tissue from the box by his bed and applied pressure to the little cut. Mickey's eyelids drooped after a few moments of applying pressure to the injury, and 2-D leaned forward, resting his forehead against Mickey's as he brought his hand up to hold Mickey's hand to his cheek. Mickey's eyes fluttered open again, looking into 2-D's as he spoke again. 

"I mean it, wha' I said."

"I know you do," Mickey answered, "but you are in no condition to be doing anything like that. What you should be doing, 2-D, is sleeping."

2-D opened his mouth to protest, and Mickey shot him a glare.

"No. We're going to stop this bleeding, and you're going to go the fuck to sleep, do I make myself clear?"

2-D nodded reluctantly, and, after a few moments, Mickey pulled the tissue away and nudged him to lay back down. 2-D obeyed, but he made sure that Mickey came with him, his arms and legs curling back around him to ensure that he wouldn't sneak off, at least, not while he was awake. Mickey wrapped his arms around 2-D in return, being mindful of the rib again, and resting his head on 2-D's shoulder as the latter laid on his back. 2-D nuzzled the top of Mickey's head, closing his eyes and trying to let himself drift off. If only it were that simple. He'd desperately wanted a distraction, and after talking proved ineffective, he'd tried for sex. When that, too, had been denied, 2-D was left with little else to turn to. Mickey  _was_ right, though, he really wasn't in any condition to be screwing around, in a literal sense. Still, he wanted, needed,  _something_ \--

" _Bruised knuckles, skinned knees,_  
_Baseball fields and climbing trees,_  
_I'm battered, bloody and blue, ooh,_  
_I'm a mystery, come and riddle me,_  
_I'll reinvent my history."_

Mickey sang quietly, his fingers tracing soothingly over 2-D's chest, playing gently with the brown hair there as he hummed an instrumental part of the song. It was a song 2-D hadn't heard before, which meant it wasn't one that Mickey had released to the public. Since 2-D had realized how much he liked Mickey, he'd been listening to all of the music he could find in which Mickey was involved. He'd heard it all, and this song was not one of the songs available. 

 _"I'm thinkin' you're like a satellite,_  
_so far away from me,_  
_Oh, you're battered, bloody and blue, ooh,_  
_You're a subtlety, you puzzle me,_  
_You don't know what you mean to me."_

 _"Mornings after and hot coffee,_  
_Rainy days and city streets,_  
_We're battered and blue, ooh,_  
_Lost in this secrecy, you're beautiful, come near to me,_  
_Battered, bloody and blue, ooh,_  
_Battered bloody and blue,_  
_Oh, battered, battered bloody and blue,_  
_Ooh, ooh, ooh,_  
_Battered bloody and blue."_

"Wha's that one called?" 2-D mumbled with a yawn after a few moments.

"I dunno, I never named it."

"Is it off the new album with D.O.V.E?"

"No, it's an old scrapper."

"Oh. I dunno why you wouldn' put it out, 's a lovely song."

Mickey smiled against 2-D's shoulder, his finger coming up to carefully "boop" 2-D's nose. "How about I make it your song. We can call it '2-D's Song', and it'll be just for you."

2-D smiled lopsidedly, his eyes barely open. "I'd like tha'."

"Then it's settled. '2-D's Song' it is."

2-D made a quiet sound that Mickey took to have been a half-asleep attempt at a giggle.

"Can you keep singin'?" he asked.

"Of course."

They fell silent for a moment, Mickey's fingers coming back to life again on 2-D's chest as he searched through his head for another song to sing.

 _"When I was young,_  
_I had a toy dinosaur,_  
_When my last song is sung,_  
_He'll miss me no more._

 _"When I was high,_  
_I thought you were a shooting star,_  
_When I have to say good-bye,_  
_I promise I won't go too far._

 _"When I am old,_  
_I'll live somewhere the sun is bright,_  
_When this earth goes cold,_  
_Will we remember the ones who wouldn't fight?_

 _"When I am low,_  
_I think of you and try to smile,_  
_When will I have to go?_  
_Don't worry, dear, it'll be a while."_

2-D began to snore quietly as the sky began to grow lighter, colors beginning seep into the pre-dawn grey. Mickey sighed, closing his burning eyes and hoping to get some sleep himself, tangled pleasantly in the arms of someone he cared deeply for. 

What had 2-D meant when he'd said "people I love", as if Mickey's name would be on a list with that title?  _Dammit,_ he thought,  _so much for sleep._ Was 2-D saying he loved Mickey? Mickey didn't know, or, he didn't want what he suspected to be the case. The possibility that 2-D did love him worried Mickey. His contract with Gorillaz for the couple of songs they'd asked him to help flesh out was nearly up, and he wasn't sure entirely what that meant for him and 2-D. Up until this point, they'd mostly just been sleeping together out of convenience; or at least, that had been how it seemed. Mickey liked 2-D, a lot, actually, and he was pretty sure, especially now, that the feeling was mutual, but that didn't make their relationship any less convenient. Sometimes, turning to someone for emotional support could be as convenience-driven as turning to them for a hand opening the door when your arms were full, or, yeah, sleeping with someone because they were there. It wasn't that Mickey wasn't attracted to 2-D, either, the sparks were  _definitely_ there on the physical side of things. It was just, well, Mickey had only just turned 28, and he wasn't sure he was ready to give up the "rock star life" he'd been leading. And 2-D was a good six years older than him, too, not that that mattered as far as their relationship was concerned, it was just that Mickey could see the signs of the other man's desire to settle beginning to show up in him. Mickey wasn't ready to settle, he might never be. He needed to keep moving, needed his feet to keep turning, needed to keep putting distance between himself and who he was all those years ago, just a vulnerable kid, heartbroken and lost and trying to get out of the limelight so he could break quietly. He needed not to be the twenty-three-year-old kid he'd been when Angel had tracked him down in New York City, living in a messy apartment full of old takeout containers and empty bottles of cheap cider and convinced him to come back to the band, told him she could make him feel better. He needed to put so much distance between himself and the year he'd spent letting her use him the way she had. And Mickey was afraid that if he didn't keep moving, the twenty-three-year-old was going to catch up with  him again.

In just a month and a half, Mickey would be leaving to go on a world tour with the rest of his band, celebrating the release of the album they'd be putting out in just two days. He'd be gone for two months, and usually, he would look forward to it. It was a guaranteed time when he would have freedom to party and fuck and get wild, and he knew that Angel couldn't lay a finger on him the whole time, not if she wanted to keep her secrets safe, because Mickey's body would be on display the whole time. This was the first time since that first tour back in 2008, after a year of hiding and wallowing in self-pity and anxiety, that Mickey hadn't been looking forward to a tour. He was almost as reluctant to leave as he'd been for that tour, and that should have told him something. It should have, but it didn't. Instead, he let out a long exhale, and he hoped that 2-D would be okay while he was gone. He'd know where he and 2-D stood when he got back, depending on what 2-D wanted to do. 

A buzzing sound ruined his peace of mind just as he started to drift off, and for a moment, he was about to start panicking--hadn't he taken the batteries out of that damn vibrator!? Then he realized it was his phone, the electronic blue-white glow of its screen lighting up the ceiling. Carefully, Mickey pulled himself out of 2-D's arms and reached for the phone. He was too late, only by a few seconds, and blearily cursed himself for missing it. Before he could set it back down, it began to vibrate in his hands again, and he jumped, almost slipping on an empty bottle of schnapps. Hastily, he grabbed a pair of jeans and shuffled out into the hall, trying to unlock the door as quickly and quietly as possible. Once he was out, he answered the phone, trying to shuffle into his pants at the same time.

"Hello?" he answered quietly.

"Oh, hello, Michael, so this is your number. Good thinking, Noodle, checking faceache's cell like that. Listen, Michael, we ah, we seem to 'ave lost the idiot, you know the one I mean, Two-Dents, yeah, and we were just wondering, you know, if maybe you'd, ehm, seen him."

"What happened?" Mickey asked, carefully beginning to make his way downstairs, his free ear straining to hear any sounds of Angel's ritual. So far, it seemed that they had finished up. They usually did by the time the sun began to come up. 

"Oh, nothing, really, he just overreacts a bit sometimes, you know the drill. We had a bit of an altercation, a minor event, really, yeh, and, well, he sort of knocked his silly self down the front steps, and, well, when I tried to help him up, he just shouted something, well, something quite rude, actually, I shouldn't repeat it, but, then he sort of, well, took off down the street and we didn't see him again. Usually, he comes back after an hour or two, but, well, it's almost sunrise, now, and we still haven't seen the bloke, so me and the band, the band's here, by the way, well, we took to the streets. I'm always a bit worried about the lil' bugger, you know? He's not the brightest, see, and he gets himself into loads of trouble if he isn't supervised properly, and so we all came out looking for him, and we couldn't find him! So, we figured, we'd check here, since he seems to have taken quite a liking to you, recently, eh, the lil' faggot," Murdoc wisely dropped his voice for the 'faggot' bit, but not enough, and Mickey grit his teeth, "and so, anyway, we figured he might have come over here. So, uh, where is he?"

"He's up in my room, sleeping." Mickey was at the front door now, and he watched as a pair of headlights in the driveway switched off.

"Oh, that's brilliant, brilliant. He's a heavy sleeper, we'll just come up and get him," Murdoc hiccuped, "he won't even notice. You're a lovely fellow, Michael, really, a big help. Sorry for all the trouble 'e's caused you. I was actually driving by when you called, so, I'm right out in your driveway. I'll just come on in there and get him out of your hair, how does that sound, hmm?"

"You really did a number on him, Murdoc," Mickey stated coolly as he flipped the deadbolt on the front door. 

"Yeah, I know, he's a silly thing--what?" The porch light flicked on automatically as Murdoc reached the front steps and bounded up them, letting Mickey see his silhouette hesitate on the top step.

"You're the one that hit him, aren't you?"

"No, no, I'd never, no, of course not. I told you, he fell down the stairs, soddin' klutz, he is. Listen, let me just come in there and get him and he'll explain it in the morning, when he's gotten his story straight. He probably hit his head on the way down, silly thing. Listen, Michael, did I ever tell you what a lovely fellow you are?"

Murdoc turned the knob and pulled, and the door didn't budge. Mickey watched as he froze for a moment, then moved to hold the phone with his shoulder as he put both hands on the knob and pulled.

"Your soddin' door's jammed, say, would you give me a hand? Thanks, lad, much appreciated, a lovely fellow you are, lovely."

"It's locked."

"Oh," Murdoc let go of the handle, taking the phone back in one hand as he gesticulated frustratedly with the other, "well unlock the bloody thing then."

"No."

"What?"

"I said no. You can't take him. He's staying here, at least until he wakes up, and when he does, he'll decide when to go back."

"You can't bloody," Murdoc slammed his shoulder into the door, bounced off, and then kicked it. "Fuck!" he shouted as he stubbed his toe, "you can't fucking just  _take_ him!"

"I'm not. He came to me, looking for a safe place, and I'm not going to let him down."

Murdoc's body crashed against the door again, and he started banging on it with his fists. The sound almost drowned out the sounds of two more car doors opening and closing, and two sets of footsteps hastily approaching the penthouse door.

"Open up, you lil' faggot!" Murdoc called, this time through the door as much as through the phone. Mickey wasn't sure, but he thought he'd heard it hit the concrete of the porch.

"No." Mickey called firmly, folding his arms and standing his ground.

"He's  _my_ singer, you  _can't have him_ ," Murdoc hissed.

Mickey scoffed. "You don't own him, Murdoc. Come on, I can smell you through the door. You're trashed. Just go home."

"He's right, Mudz," came Russel's familiar baritone from the other side of the door, and Mickey felt his body relax. Thank god, Russel would talk some sense into him.

"What's going on, here, darling?"

Any tension that had been drained instantly returned tenfold at the sound of that voice.

"Is that Angel I hear?" Murdoc called. 

Mickey turned to face the greater threat, pressing his back flat against the door, trying not to cower as Angel towered over him in her silk nightgown, her blue eyes turned a stormy shade of grey in the dim light.

"Who's out there?" Angel stepped forward, and in a single smooth motion, she swiped the back of her hand across Mickey's cheek, her nails catching his skin and tearing it away. Mickey was startled, his tiny frame staggering off-kilter, giving Angel an easy opportunity to shove him out of her way and begin to turn the lock.

"It's me, Murdoc Niccals, your old pal from Gorillaz, love."

Mickey brought his hand to his cheek, watching wide-eyed from behind Angel as she opened the door and Murdoc immediately stepped in, beaming at her in that sleazy way of his as Russel and Noodle shared a worried look with each other.

"And what brings you here, darling?" Angel cooed in that phony voice she used for interviews.

"Oh, well, see, we've got a bit of a problem. It seems our singers have become a bit, well, attached to the idea of breeding a new generation of little faggot singers, huhuhh, and when we came to fetch ours, your little attack dog here got all territorial and locked us out," Murdoc explained, smug and certain that he'd won now that Angel was present.

"I see." Angel gave Mickey a look over her shoulder that made his stomach drop, his already wide eyes growing into huge green saucers as he felt a fear he hadn't felt in a while. Having something to protect seemed to remind Mickey of his survival instincts, it seemed. "Well," she continued, her gaze remaining on Mickey for a moment longer before she turned back to Murdoc with a sweet smile, "I suppose you'll have to forgive my dear little Mickey here. He's had a rough night, you know, I don't think he's been sober since seven in the evening, well, yesterday, now."

Murdoc chuckled darkly. "So where is he, then?"

"Mickey will show you to his room, I'm sure the little rat is in there, Murdoc, it's where he always is," Murdoc practically sang.

"Thank you, love, you've been most helpful this fine morning."

Before Murdoc could approach Mickey, a large hand landed on his shoulder, and Noodle stepped in front of him, facing Angel. 

"I apologize," she said politely, "but we'll be taking Murdoc-san home now. It was foolish of us to bring him here. I apologize for waking you at such an early hour, and for inconveniencing you so wastefully."

As Noodle spoke, Russel firmly guided a bickering Murdoc towards the car, his hand firmly gripping the back of Murdoc's neck. Noodle turned her eyes on Mickey, who tried to look braver.

"Thank you for so generously taking care of our lead singer," she dipped her head politely in a small bow, "I'm sure he would do the same for you if ever you were in need."

With that, Noodle turned, closed the door behind her, and followed her other two bandmates toward the car. Angel stared at the door for a minute, and Mickey began to slink back towards the stairs, ready to make a break for it. She turned back to him before he had made much progress, her eyes dull and tired. That was a good sign, Mickey thought, because it meant that she didn't have the energy to chase him if he did bolt.

"You're a crazy little bastard, Michael," she sighed. For a moment, Mickey thought she'd leave it at that, but then she added, "I can't figure out if you're actually that fucking stupid, or if you really just don't care."

Mickey shrugged, eyeing her warily.

"Whatever," she grumbled, "just go back to your little toy and leave the rest of us to sleep."

With that, Mickey tore up the stairs, barely managing to keep from tripping on his over-sized jeans as they threatened to fall off his hips. Once he was in his room, he tried to be more quiet, despite his heavy breathing, as he carefully locked every lock back into place and then pressed his back against the hard surface, sliding down to sit at the base of the door. That had been a lot more than he had been prepared to process, he thought, as the first rays of early morning sunlight began to pour over the horizon, lighting his room in a rosy golden glow. Mickey looked up as he heard his name mumbled sleepily from his bed, a familiar mess of blue hair peeking up from his rustling blankets, 2-D probably searching for him there.

"Mick?" More rustling, and then 2-D was sitting bold upright,  _that must've hurt_ , Mickey thought, "Mickey?"

"I"m over here," Mickey said, trying to slink into the bathroom to deal with his scratches before 2-D could wake the whole way up and worry about it. "Just takin' a piss."

"Oh." Mickey breathed a sigh of relief as he heard the sound of 2-D laying back down. He'd managed to get into the bathroom without incident, now he just needed to get a bandaid and some ointment, and probably an alcohol swab, since he never trusted Angel's touch.

"What're you doin' with tha' swab then?" 

Mickey nearly jumped out of his skin when he spotted 2-D leaning against the doorframe, his hair extra messy and his eyes droopy and tired. Still, he was beautiful, and very much not supposed to be seeing this.

"I- uh, nothin'." Mickey tried to tuck the swab behind his back, which was stupid, because it turned him toward 2-D.

"Wha' 'appened to your face?" 2-D's playful attitude dropped as he hastily came over, bending down to cup a protesting Mickey's face in his hands, tilting his head all around so that he could look at the scratches. "'O 'it you?"

"No, it's--I ran into the door, tryin' to sneak around in the dark, it's fine, really, you just go back to bed and I'll deal with it."

2-D gave Mickey the most suffering look that Mickey had ever seen him give, one he was actually surprised 2-D could manage. "You’s an 'orrible liar."

Mickey gave a guilty grin. "Had to try," he shrugged.

"So, 'o did it?" 2-D let go of Mickey's face and reached around him to take the alcohol swab from his fingers, dabbing it over Mickey's cheek before he could really try to speak. 

Mickey drew in a sharp breath through his teeth, squeezing his eye on that side shut and squinting the other at 2-D. "Don't wanna talk about it."

"I told you," 2-D said as he set the swab aside and grabbed the ointment, which he slathered sloppily over Mickey's cheek, struggling to get it to stick on wet skin and fresh blood.

Mickey sighed. "Angel," he muttered.

"Figured."

2-D proceeded to carefully unwrap a large square bandaid, his tongue poking adorably out of his mouth as he tried his best to keep from touching the adhesive part until he picked it up, and then as he put all of his focus into carefully lining the bandage up with Mickey's scratches and sticking it onto his cheek. When he finished carefully smoothing out the edges along Mickey's cheek, he gave a big grin and looked proudly at his work. 

"There!" he cheered, "all better." And with that, he planted a kiss on top of the bandaid.

Mickey turned a little pink and wiggled past him to the door, flicking the lights off as 2-D followed closely behind him. Mickey stripped the jeans off of his hips, kicking them away as he went, and then climbed up on his bed to grip the sliding blind on the skylight, pulling it shut and letting the room slip back into a peaceful darkness. 2-D slipped into the bed behind him, and he pulled Mickey down with him. Mickey made a startled noise as he tried not to land on 2-D and risk hurting him. In the end, Mickey convinced 2-D to lie on his back so he wasn't stressing his rib cage, and Mickey laid his head on his shoulder, keeping his arms around 2-D instead of the other way around. This was comfortable for both of them, though, and they could sleep like this. They  _would_ go to  _sleep_ like--

"Mick?" 2-D mumbled into Mickey's hair.

"Yeah?"

"Where'd you go?"

"I--" Mickey's breath caught in his throat for a split second, and then he answered. "Murdoc called. I didn't want to wake you so I snuck out to take the call."

"'E called?" 2-D's voice quivered more than it should have.

"It's okay, Russ and Noodle came and took him home before he could do anything stupid. Besides, even if they hadn't been there, I wouldn't let him get to you."

2-D relaxed, doing his best to wrap both arms around Mickey without turning onto his side.

"I love you," he mumbled into Mickey's hair.

Mickey stiffened. "I- uh, that's, uh, I lo-- uh, to- th-thanks," he babbled. "I-I'm glad, uh, I could help, um, thank you."

2-D tightened his grip on Mickey a bit, falling silent, and Mickey could tell that it was not the answer that 2-D had hoped to hear. But what was Mickey supposed to do? He still wasn't sure what his feelings for 2-D were exactly, but he did know for a fact that he wasn't going to say those three words until he was certain of them, because he cared enough about 2-D to not want to see him hurt by leading him on. So he didn't. Instead, he just gave a quiet sigh, reaching up to run his fingers through 2-D's hair apologetically, soothingly, er... reassuringly? He wasn't exactly sure why he'd done that, but he hoped it helped.

There was a long silence, and 2-D's fingers began tracing the rose tattoo on Mickey's collarbone, dancing along the outlines of the petals and circling the little timepiece inked into his skin beside the flower. It was a reminder of the time he almost got his collar bone broken during an illegal boxing match while on tour in the U.S. Mickey closed his eyes, letting 2-D do what he wanted as he tried to sleep. Things weren't supposed to get this complicated between two people who worked together and also, maybe a little more than occasionally, slept together. 

"You asleep?"

Mickey cracked an eye open and looked up to find 2-D looking down at him. "No," he murmured, as if it weren't obvious already by his reaction.

"So, I was thinkin' about earlier, an' I thought, maybe if you were on top--"

"Dee..." Mickey half-heartedly growled, trying his best to be firm.

2-D gave him a gappy grin, and Mickey knew that 2-D knew damn well what he was doing. Mickey rolled his eyes and laid his head back down on 2-D's shoulder.

"You're insatiable."

"In-insa-insatia-wha' now?"

"You won't be satisfied," Mickey cuffed the top of his head lightly, still worried about head damage, but 2-D just giggled.

"Well, could I at least get a kiss good night?" 

Mickey sighed and shifted to press a chaste kiss to 2-D's forehead.

"I meant here," 2-D said, trying to pout again as he pointed to his mouth.

"No, 2-D, your lip is just going to tear open again. Go to sleep."

"Alright, alright. I was just checkin', jus' wan' 'o be sure."

"Go to sleep."

"Well, 's jus' tha', oh, blimey," 2-D gave an annoyed huff, "I oughta kick Murdoc fer dis, soddin' wanker, ruinin' me plans fer the last coupla weeks you 'ave left with us. 'S jus' my luck, though, innit? Bastard bass player."

"Huh?" Mickey lifted his head again, tilting it as he looked up at 2-D.

2-D turned a bit pink. "Well, you’re goin' t' be goin' off on this big tour, yeh? An' I thought, well, I jus' wan'ed..." He sighed, his fingers tapping frustratedly on Mickey's chest as he tried to figure out how to explain himself.

"You know, sugar, we don't have to just have sex. There's plenty of other things we can do together."

"Wha', are you sayin' I should take you out?" 2-D's mouth slowly began to spread into a grin.

"I dunno, I just mean, uh, we've gotta do something to make up for this before I go, and since you're in no condition to be screwing anyone, maybe we could go do other things instead."

"Oh, you mean--oh, yeh, I s'pose you’re right. I still wan' 'o fuck you, though, at least once before you go."

Mickey snorted. "Horny bastard."

"No! It ain't tha', really! 'S jus', you’re goin' t' go off an' 'ave all this fun with all these exotic men an' women on your tour, an' I wan' 'o give you somethin’ to remember me by."

"Oh, sugar, I'm not going to forget you. How could I?"

"Don' lie, luv, I've been on these world tours, too, yeh? I know wha' 's like, bein' a young rock star an' 'avin your choice of willin' an' eager fans. You’re goin' t' 'ave some o' th' best you've 'ad in a while, an' tha's good, I wouldn' take tha' from you, 's jus', I wan' 'o do somethin’ tha'll put me up there with the rest of 'em, so you'll remember bein' with me, too."

"Hey, don't give me that 'young rock star' thing, like you're so old. You're only six years older than me, Dee." Mickey didn't look at 2-D as he spoke, and his voice wavered a bit.

"I'm in me firties, Mick, I  _feel_ old."

"Bull. I'm twenty eight, I'll be in my thirties before you know it. Neither of us is old, you aren't and I won't be when I'm there."

"I'm jus' sayin', I know wha' 's like, an' I wanted t' give you somethin’ to rememer me by, until Mudz went and buggered it all up fer me."

"Dee, you've already given me plenty to remember you by." Mickey was looking at 2-D now, and he was hoping 2-D was looking back. "And quit acting like we're not going to see each other after the tour. I'll still live here in London, Dee."

"Yeah, bu' you won' come an' see me anymore, luv. You'll be goin' t' raves an' parties an' clubs an' livin' th' good life. You won' 'ave any reason t' come an' visit me anymore." 2-D sounded so resigned, and it bothered Mickey. It bothered him a lot.

"Dee, stop pretending like we aren't friends. I like you, Dee, really, I do. And when I get back from the tour, I'll expect to meet up with you so I can tell you all about it, yeah? And you can tell me all about the things that you've been up to while I was away. It'll be fun."

"You sound like you’re talkin' about a date," 2-D teased, a bit of an sad-amused smile on his face. It was a look that both suited him perfectly and looked awful on him.

"Well, I mean," Mickey scrambled for the right response to convey how he felt, "th-that's not something I--"  _That's not something I would be opposed to, come on, Michael, say it._

"I know, I know," 2-D interrupted, "I'm jus' kiddin', luv."

"No," Mickey tried again, "I--"

"'S it okay with you tha' I love you? I knew I shouldn' 'ave said it, bu', it jus' sort of slipped out."

"No, Dee," Mickey murmured, "I don't mind."

"Really? You mean tha'?"

"Yeah, it's fine."

"So... I can keep sayin' it?"

Mickey hesitated. "Well, I mean, I guess so. I'm not sure what--"

"I love you." 2-D smiled and kissed the top of Mickey's head. "you don' 'ave to say it back, I know it ain't th' same fer you, 's jus', it feels so much better when I tell you."

"I know, Dee, I know." Mickey paused, debating whether or not to continue, but he did. "Listen, sugar, it's not that I  _don't_ like you, really, I do. I like you a lot, actually, it's just... there are some things that happened to me, a long time ago, before I met you, and... I don't know, I just... after that, I just can't... 'Love' seems like such a strong word, you know?"

2-D fell silent, and after a while, Mickey started to think he'd fallen asleep. It was honestly a wonder either of them was still awake, with the amount of sleep they'd had. But then, 2-D spoke again.

"Mick," he started, then hesitated, then, "are you... afraid of bein' in love?"

"That--what? I mean, I'm not, uh, I don't... know?"

2-D nodded, ran his fingers through Mickey's hair, pushing it out of his face, and leaned down to carefully kiss his forehead. It was a bit of an awkward kiss, with his lip, but he did what he'd done earlier, just sort of brushing his lips over Mickey's face, and it worked well enough. 

"Okay," he said, "I was jus' wonderin'. Can I keep tryin'?"

"Trying... what?"

"Tryin' t' see if you can love me."

"I wouldn't mind that."

2-D grinned. "Thanks, luv."

They fell silent again, and Mickey bit the inside of his cheek, hard. He'd had the chance to say something, a hundred chances throughout that conversation, and he hadn't. To make matters worse, he wasn't sure what he wanted to say or why he wanted to say it. Did he love 2-D? He didn't know! Well, maybe the answer was a bit obvious, but for once, Mickey was doing something because his head mandated it, and not his heart. His heart was being pretty damn clear about what he wanted to do, but his brain, which was in control of his tongue, kept cutting him off. Old scars there, in his memory, were holding him back from a relationship that could fix them.

2-D started to snore quietly, but Mickey, no matter how heavy his eyelids were, couldn't fall asleep. He needed some kind of resolution, desperately, and he wasn't going to let himself rest until he had one.

It took nearly forty-five minutes before he got it, his resolution. He would go on the tour, and the time away from 2-D would make it clear exactly how Mickey felt about him. 

Mickey fell asleep within two minutes of making his promise, whispering it softly in 2-D's ear as he slept.

 

"I'll tell you when I get back, and I know that it's true. I promise."


End file.
